Stars
by K.Y. Lowell
Summary: Another battle takes an unexpected turn. -Noctis x Stella-


Lights behind them; hers is yellow, his is blue.

They share a glance, a look far too long for enemies but far too short for the tentative friends they've become, and the sigils are only just fading by the time they come together and blade meets blade in a clash of metal and sparks. It isn't the first time they've fought, but even now he finds himself surprised by how she can meet his eyes so close (so soft, concerned, disliking the situation yet edged with a cold steely note and a determination that never wavers - how can she look at him like that?--) and as always he's the first one to break away, tear his gaze (pain, sadness, he doesn't want to fight her just as she doesn't want to fight him but what choice do they have--) away from hers and leap back in preparation for another strike. It's all perfectly choreographed; it's like a dance. He knows she will follow him, press relentlessly forward and try to find the little cracks in his guard that get bigger and bigger every time they fight, and he is unsurprised when once more she's right _there_ and their swords ring together. She's strong; the force of the blow makes him grunt as he braces himself against it and for just a moment he feels bizarrely like he wants to laugh - she's a woman, all soft lines and delicate touches and fluid movements--

(--and as he tries to look anywhere but her eyes his mind wanders, sees her in that clinging white dress with her hair feathering gently around her face and her lips in a warm, friendly smile, her hands fluttering close to him but never quite touching but he can still sense her warm skin and he feels so _drawn_ to her, to this pretty and kind girl-child so much _like_ him yet so very different - how can this be, he wonders, how can they be the same and yet--)

--she shouldn't be this strong, shouldn't be able to nearly knock him off-balance with her quick motions and her pinpoint accuracy, but she is and she can and it excites him, and his blood pulses hot in his veins as he pushes her roughly away and takes the offensive. Now it's her turn to raise her rapier in defense, to gasp surprise at his power and though he knows better he thinks he might overpower her this time, disarm her and claim a victory--

(--he could pretend to stumble, knock into her and fall just to feel her body under his, so warm and soft and yet underlaid with the fine musculature of a fighter - he had known from the start that she was no average woman, the fluidity and certainty of her movements had given it away and yet at the same time she could have been any little rich girl forced to attend these boring little functions in the hopes of catching his eye, but she _wasn't_ and he thinks that maybe that's why he can feel this connection to her. she never threw herself at him, never pressed any discomfiting interest on him, simply spoke to him politely yet frankly and unafraid to peel back the layers that hide his secrets--)

--then she surprises him suddenly as she breaks the routine, ducks low and drives an elbow roughly into his stomach; it doesn't hurt so much that he can't keep fighting but he does falter, takes a few stumbling steps back and then she's _there_, her eyes sad but resolute as the hand not holding her sword fixes itself to his shoulder and for a long moment, time seems to freeze. She looks at him and he can't do anything but look back, suddenly aware that she's close enough to breathe on his lips and if he were to tilt his head even just a little bit his mouth would be on hers - and for the first time she's got him genuinely off-guard as he wonders if she realizes it too, but she _has_ to know because she isn't moving away and her fingers are still clenched tight to his shoulder and suddenly she speaks, breath warm on his trembling lips, _Noct--_

(--_just call me Noct,_ he told her, and in a moment of girlish stubbornness she had refused to break the polite little mold she'd set herself in and told him she'd call him that the next time, and in a way he was glad. the sound of his given name on her lips was enough; if she had given in and spoken his nickname he thinks he might have broken a little bit himself, tried to pull her into his arms and kiss her breathless and he doesn't think she'd have minded at all but that isn't the point--)

--and the frozen moment shatters. He finds he can move again, drops his blade and reaches up to twist hers from her hand; she gives a small cry when he bends her wrist just slightly the wrong way but her fingers obediently open and the instant her hand is free, it finds its way to his other shoulder and grips tightly and he's sure this time that he isn't mistaken. So close, holding on so tightly, won't move away and let him regain his coherency, his sanity, _himself_ - and he isn't surprised in the least to find that he doesn't want to regain any of it as he finally _moves_ and presses his mouth against hers - and suddenly he's sure she's been waiting for this as her lips part invitingly and she presses her body flush to his, digs her nails into his shoulders and kisses him deeply and he feels as though he's drowning and doesn't want to come up for air. How could he have been so blind--

(--only he wasn't, he realizes, he was only denying himself what he - what _they_ wanted - even at the moment they stood before the portrait of the Goddess and she relentlessly pried her way into his psyche and uncovered things even he didn't want to think about but softened them with that note of gentleness that was so inherently _her_ so he just couldn't get mad at her for it. he never honestly even thought to get mad; he only played at being annoyed because she made him feel so damned shy and she knew it and that's why she never stopped, never apologized - but in trying to hide he could only deny and he wishes now that he'd given in, taken hold of her hands when she tried to leave and at least dared to feel her soft warm cheek beneath his lips--)

--he doesn't want to part from her for anything but eventually he does when he feels her hands that were so steady only seconds ago trembling on the fastenings of his clothing, and as he reaches just as shakily down to help her undress him some traitorous little part of his mind reminds him he's fraternizing with the enemy and he thinks angrily at it: _shut up, she was my friend before she was my enemy_ and once she can deal with his clothing on her own he begins to work at hers in return. It doesn't take long, she wears much less than he does and her choice of clothing is much less complicated, and soon she stands naked and unashamed before him and he wants to touch and taste her all over but he knows they don't have the time. He simply slips out of his own remaining clothes and arranges them on the hard ground into what will have to do as a sort of cushion; she smiles at his thoughtfulness and then laughs as she bats his hands lightly away when he reaches for her to lay her down. _Noct,_ she murmurs, meets his eyes--

(--she could get him to do _anything_ saying his name like that, he knew from the start he gave her the strongest possible weapon to use against him but damned if he cares; after all, they're the same, aren't they?--)

--he doesn't complain, lays down on his back and lets her straddle him, and the warm touch of her fingers on him as she holds him steady is pleasant but then the wet heat that surrounds him is _wonderful_ and he lets out a breathy cry into the moonlit night, a cry that she echoes as she braces her hands against his chest for balance and begins to move. This is no slow, gentle affair; she rides him hard and fast and reaches for his hand to guide him to touch her, and he does so eagerly and finds himself strangely gratified when she shudders against him and cries out completion to the sky - and then he doesn't even have time to think about the fact that he hasn't quite fallen over the figurative brink because her hands are on him when her weight leaves him and he gasps out a moan, spills himself over her fingers and lays panting in the mussed little nest of cloth for a few long seconds as she finds a handkerchief in her skirt pocket to clean her hands--

(--should have done this sooner, shouldn't do it again but he knows they will and he doesn't give a damn what's _proper_--)

--she kisses him quickly, harshly, and they're both breathless when they part and begin to dress, silent now and she's refusing to meet his eyes and he can't bear that; he snatches at her wrist, holds her hand tightly and asks the question he knows they both want to ask so badly, _Will I find you again?_

A smile touches her lips and she relaxes - looks at him again, teases him softly, _Will you?_

_Maybe._ He lets her go, smiles briefly in return, and just like that things are back to normal. They're opposed again, enemies again, never knowing if they _will_ be able to meet like this in the future or if they'll only fight - but they knew it would happen and accepted it even before the fact. It's how they live, after all - nothing will change it, this is their fate.

She starts to move away - hesitates, looks back at him and says uncertainly, _Noct--_

He knows what she's going to say; he says it first. _...Take care of yourself._

_...You too._ She turns, reaches out to him but doesn't quite touch, hovers her hand only centimeters from his arm for a second before she whirls and flees, leaves him standing under a coldly unforgiving moon and stars that gleam accusingly, and he looks up to the sky and feels suddenly alone for a little while before he can shake it off and start making his own way home, his lips silently moving in words he should have said earlier but that have only just come to him now.

_...Thank you, Stella._

But somehow, even as late as he is saying them, they make him feel just a little lighter and a little less alone.


End file.
